


Premonition

by cherie_morte



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Monster of the Week, OPOV, POV Outsider, Series Finale, The Epic Love Story of Sam and Dean, The Mothman, almost heaven West Virginia, cryptid, finale-positive, gencest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27806026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherie_morte/pseuds/cherie_morte
Summary: Sam and Dean hunt the Mothman. The Mothman doesn't hunt them back.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 56
Kudos: 163





	Premonition

**Author's Note:**

> In the aftermath of the incredible Supernatural finale, I have so many fics percolating that are exactly what you would expect out of me. This is...not those fics. This was just supposed to be a Twitter thread to make my friends sad building on the least sad line in the barn scene, and yet it kept growing and growing and suddenly this whole thing was just itching to be written in earnest. My dream for a continuation of the series would basically be ten episodes of things like this, little MOTWs set between Chuck's defeat and the finale, with connections to the brothers and no mytharc making everything too bloated. I probably won't get it, but hey, that's what fanfiction is for! Unless you work for the future continuation of the series...free license to plagiarize this completely, I want to watch this episode so bad.
> 
> The Mothman has long been my favorite cryptid, so I really hope I did right by the legend. I tried not to take too much from any one story (though I certainly threw in my hat tip to Griffin McElroy, TAZ: Amnesty fans will notice) and to make the myth fit into the Supernatural universe.
> 
> Anyway, I am really nervous about posting this, because it's big time out of my wheelhouse. I did a lot of experimenting and I think it takes a little bit to get into the groove of this story, but I hope that if you give it a go, you enjoy the ride! Thank you so so much to both my betas, [Zee](https://twitter.com/BockVer) and [Mary](https://twitter.com/starshinedean), who really helped me clean up where I was being messy with my pronouns, tenses, and run-on sentences, but also for reassuring me that there was something worth sharing here.

The hunters arrive at 4:17 p.m. on May 2, 2024, just as expected. The Mothman is already waiting. Hunters don’t really catch them by surprise. No one does.

Rumbling motor cuts and two doors swing open in the same moment, two sets of boots make a soft squelch as they step out onto the damp forest ground.

“We’ll have to walk the rest of the way,” says one, who the Mothman can now see being introduced as Sam in just about an hour.

The other scowls, muttering something about his distaste for monsters who don’t have the decency to live on paved roads. He’ll be the one to share their names, and his will be Dean.

“Don’t complain to me,” Sam says as he pulls blades and guns out of the trunk of the car, trying to guess what he’ll need. “You’re the one who picked the hunt. I for one would be thrilled to find out what it’s like to have a brother that doesn’t get me cryptids for my birthday.”

“You would hate it,” Dean informs him as he joins in picking weapons. He digs for the tools pushed further to the back than the ones Sam went for, and the Mothman sees ninja stars and a chakram rattling around in the box he lifts. “Don’t pretend that Chupacabra last year wasn’t the time of your life.”

Sam admits nothing, but his scowl has an air of fondness to it as he continues to load up.

The Mothman entertains themself by giving the hunters advice they won’t hear, because, hey, they gotta get their kicks somewhere. Silver bullets? Won’t do it. Copper knife? Probably, they haven’t enjoyed the cuts they’ve gotten from hunters in the past. The Mothman suspects a lucky plunge to the heart might be enough to put an end to them, but no one has been lucky yet. It’s hard to win when your opponent can anticipate your every move. Just once, the Mothman would like to be able to opt out of the fight, but hunters will be hunters.

Oh, well, that’s new. The flamethrower would definitely work, but the Mothman is relieved to see that Sam puts an end to Dean’s enthusiasm on that one. No need to burn down a whole forest just to try and stop one measly abomination.

“Remember,” Sam is saying as Dean slams the trunk shut. “We’re not going to kill it yet. This is an interview.”

Dean rolls his eyes and the Mothman can tell this is an argument that has lasted for hours. Maybe the whole ride over. They wonder where these two came from, a rare moment of curiosity in their life. It must have been a very interesting past to explain how the brothers got here and how they will reach the future the Mothman sees.

“Right,” Dean replies, double checking the barrel of his gun. “Because the creepy voice might have been trying to help.”

“We’re not shooting the messenger,” says Sam firmly. “Having visions isn’t the same as causing them.”

That creates a shift in two people: the Mothman, who isn’t used to hunters having their back, and in Sam’s brother.

Dean’s expression softens, though he doesn’t look over. The only person who can see his face is the Mothman, sitting outside their cabin two and a half miles away, watching this scene play out alongside a million other futures, all while simultaneously contemplating what’s actually in front of them, a nest of cardinals who just started hatching as spring got underway. The Mothman doesn’t look at the birds directly so they don’t have to learn which ones will fall out of the tree before learning to fly.

“It’s not the same,” Dean says, as if he’s trying to reassure Sam of something, but he gives in, too. “We won’t hurt it until we’re sure, Sam.”

This is the Mothman’s least favorite part, the waiting. Everything being a foregone conclusion, they would really like to get it over with, but that’s not how this works. It won’t be until 5:28 p.m. that the brothers reach the cabin, and the Mothman looks down at their watch. Still only 4:34 p.m. This is the part where Dean offers his brother a snack and Sam accepts a handful, spitting it out moments later before arguing that Flaming Hot Cheetos are not a component of trail mix. There’s plenty of walking still ahead of them. Dean’s blister hasn’t even started to chaff yet.

The Mothman stayed busy as long as they could while killing time waiting for this confrontation, but there’s only so many chores they could do. They ran out of ways to distract themself half an hour ago and have since been enjoying the crisp mountain air and relative quiet of the afternoon, trying not to let the dread of what they know they must do before the day is over completely cloud their mood, though it gets more challenging as the hunters draw closer.

Sam approaches first, Dean straggling behind a few steps, out of breath from the uphill hike. The Mothman smiles to themself, seeing a vision of both men tomorrow, the one sleeping in while the other goes for a jog, confident that’s a regular enough occurrence to account for Dean’s winded climb. These two aren’t bad so far. The Mothman wishes that weren’t the case. After all, this won’t end well for them. It never does.

They can tell from the look on Sam’s face as he grows closer that the Mothman has already thrown the brothers off. Hunters always come with a plan and it probably didn’t involve being greeted the moment they cleared the hill and line of trees surrounding the Mothman’s cabin. These humans don’t have the sight, of course, couldn’t have known what would be waiting here, but the Mothman does. Their view shifts like a television channel changing as two heads appear on the horizon, the moment the vision and the reality click together into one.

“Good afternoon,” Sam says, recovering quickly from whatever surprised him, whether it’s the Mothman’s unsettling appearance or the fact that they were already prepared for a meeting, the Mothman isn’t really sure which. “I’m Forest Ranger Wayne Newton and this is my partner, Ranger Go—”

“Those aren’t your names and you’re not rangers,” the Mothman interrupts. “You’re hunters. I’ve been expecting you.”

The brothers exchange a flurry of looks in the space of a second, a whole conversation playing out between them. An impressive breadth of bickering for only eyebrows and sour twists of the lip. ‘I told you so’s seem to get kicked back and forth in both directions until finally Dean rolls his eyes and turns his attention to the Mothman.

“Yeah, alright, let’s cut the crap, then. I’m Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sam. You know who we are. We know _what_ you are.” He pulls the gun tucked into the back of his jeans out and aims it, like the Mothman already knew he would. “And everyone knows why we’re here. So. Get talking.”

“You’re not going to shoot me,” the Mothman tells him calmly, before glancing over at Sam. “Neither are you.”

Sam raises his hands in a gesture of peace, which only seems to make Dean more determined to keep his weapon aimed. That’s okay, the Mothman doesn’t take it to heart. They are currently witnessing a flash of hundreds of hunts the brothers will go on after this, and Dean’s alertness is nothing personal. If Sam isn’t on guard, Dean overcompensates by being three times more so. Fiercely protective, enough that Sam is allowed the security of waltzing up to things much scarier than the Mothman and giving them a chance to prove his big brother wrong about them. Doesn’t seem to happen often, but just allowing room for the possibility sets these two apart.

“We have a few questions, that’s all,” Sam says in an open, warm tone. This must be a well-worn routine for them by now. Dean watches him with an air of indulgence, but the barrel of his gun remains steady.

“I know,” the Mothman replies.

“This is going to be a pretty redundant conversation, isn’t it?” Dean asks.

Shooting him a warning look, Sam takes another step closer, until he’s standing directly in front of where the Mothman is sitting. “About the accidents.”

The Mothman nods. “This is where I tell you I was trying to stop them and you don’t believe me and we fight and I…” They sigh. “I don’t know what causes them. I don’t know why they follow me. I don’t know why I see the things I do. I try to live remotely enough to avoid it altogether, but I can’t control for hikers or scientists or…”

The same cloud passes over all three of their faces as they think of the most recent tragedy, one big enough and weird enough to alert hunters. Unfortunate falls and animal attacks are one thing. The bus full of second graders on a fieldtrip being pushed off a mountain by a single falling boulder after a 911 call three days prior detailing everything down to the mile marker and angle of impact was bound to ping a few radars. The Mothman learned decades ago to stop trying to interfere—collapsed bridge and floating Christmas presents and all those bloated corpses—but this time there were just so many people in danger and they were all so _small_. If only someone had listened. No one ever listens.

“We believe you,” Sam says, though after a beat and a sour glance from his brother, he amends the statement. “I believe you.”

“Why?” the Mothman asks. It doesn’t matter a whole lot, this will probably still end how it always does, but they have to know. It’s never gone like this and the Mothman is so, so unbearably used to it going the same way, over and over and over and over again.

“We did our homework. There’s a long history of you trying to stop tragedies in this area and no evidence to suggest you caused any of them.” Sam waits a beat before adding, “I used to have visions, too. I tried to stop them. I know what it feels like when it doesn’t work out.”

It would be wiser, perhaps, to disbelieve him, but the Mothman saw the way Dean’s face changed an hour ago when he told Sam this wasn’t the same, and they know when they’re being lied to. There’s no lie in Sam Winchester’s understanding eyes, or in the way that, even on edge as he is, Dean Winchester has yet to attempt to pull the trigger.

“Used to,” the Mothman repeats, grateful for a change that their voice doesn’t allow enough intonation for the man to hear their jealousy. “They went away?”

“I wasn’t born with them,” Sam explains, skirting around the issue with a deliberate care that the Mothman finds most humane. There are other ways he could have said it. Other ways most hunters would have said it. _I wasn’t born like you_ , _I’m not a freak_.

The Mothman sits in front of him, wings bound under an oversized coat, slouching to bring their seven-foot frame closer to his, bright orange eyes that see now and too many tomorrows all at once hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, and this man stands there pretending they are made of the same stuff. They aren’t and the Mothman will never be foolish enough to forget it, but it’s a very tender thing, the way that Sam at least seems to believe it.

“What can I do to convince you?” the Mothman asks. “I would very much like to send you boys home tonight in one piece.”

Sam and Dean once again exchange looks, though this time there’s a lot less to say. They don’t seem to have an answer prepared. The Mothman would be able to anticipate it if they did.

Instead, they see the answer play out in real time, with Dean speaking as it comes to him, “If you don’t cause the accidents, we should be able to get to one in time to stop it if you give us the heads-up, right?”

The Mothman nods. “My prophecies are not set in stone. They can be altered, reshaped.”

“Why don’t you fix them, then?” Dean challenges.

“The closer I get, the worse things seem to go. More accidents than the one I was trying to prevent begin to occur, like dominoes falling. They become more gruesome, more outlandish. I can’t help that way.”

“That’s why you call,” Sam guesses. “Or send emails or—”

“I used to try writing letters,” the Mothman says, almost with a laugh at the absurdity of their own existence. “Back when that was all I could do. No one believes until it’s too late, then they—”

“Blame you for it,” Sam says sadly, looking away.

Dean watches him, walls up, only a slight tightness in the corner of his lips to show that he’s feeling anything at all, but the end of his gun turns to the ground, away from the Mothman’s heart, just the slightest bit.

“Give us some proof,” he says, tone still not as kind as his brother’s, but now lacking the open hostility he’d arrived with. “Tell us something we can stop.”

“There’s a small boat out on the lake,” the Mothman says. “In one hour and fifteen minutes, the man who owns it will attempt to bait his grandson’s fishing hook. It will become tangled with his own line just as a large fish begins to pull. The tug will make his hand slip and the hook will catch his throat. The wound would not be lethal, but the fear and pain trigger a heart attack. The boy does not know how to get the boat back to land and there is no reception to call for help. He will watch his grandfather die, he will sit in the boat until it hits a rock, and the boat will take on water. The boy does not know how to swim. His mother is a widow. She will drive off a bridge the day after her son and father’s funeral, but not before hitting a bicyclist she could not see through her tears. The bicyclist has two dogs, and no one will return to feed them. Should I keep going?”

The brothers don’t react as much as the Mothman is expecting. Neither appears daunted by the amount of bloodshed they have just laid out, but both hunters’ expressions take on an air of determination. They wonder what these two have seen, but the Mothman has never been able to glimpse into the past.

“Think,” Sam says. “No way we reach the lake before they get out on the water, and we don’t have a—”

“I have a rowboat,” the Mothman says. “About twenty minutes east, tied up by the bank. You could reach them in time if you leave now. I can tell you the way.”

Sam nods, ready to go, but Dean stops and shakes his head, turning back to the Mothman before shooting his brother an apologetic look. “Someone has to watch him.”

“What?” Sam says. “Dean, we have to—”

“You go save them,” Dean instructs. “And I’ll stay here. Keep an eye on…”

Sam hesitates for a moment, and the Mothman rises to their feet, causing both brothers to step back as they take in the Mothman’s height.

“Your brother is right,” the Mothman tells Sam. “I cannot go for obvious reasons. If both of you go, there will be no way to be sure I do not cause the accident. Your brother should stay and watch me. Then we can put this all to rest until the next hunters come around.”

At the suggestion of leaving his brother, Sam’s eyes grow dark, and the Mothman can see that behind his kindness, there’s just as much danger hiding in him as his brother wears so openly. The benefit of the doubt that Sam extended apparently only extends this far. The Mothman finds themself wondering if these two know how clear the world can see their devotion to each other. If they simply don’t care.

“How am I supposed to know you aren’t splitting us up so it’s easier to pick us off? You said yourself there’s no reception and—”

“Sammy,” Dean says. The brothers’ eyes meet and Dean quirks his lips in a self-assured smirk. “What can’t your big brother beat?”

For a moment longer, Sam pouts, but slowly he returns the smile. “Alright. I’m gonna need that map. Fast.”

The Mothman turns away, entering their cabin and paying no mind to the sound of the door swinging open again behind them as the brothers follow them inside. They find a sheet of blank paper and quickly draw a rudimentary map to the boat, explaining markers and which directions to take and telling Sam where to row in order to stop the tragedy before it happens.

Sam takes the map and pauses only long enough to remind Dean not to do anything stupid and then he’s out the door, watched through the window by his brother and the monster they came here to kill.

Once he’s out of sight, Dean turns his attention to the Mothman’s home. He glances around briefly before dropping onto the couch. “Kind of bizarre, you just living in a regular house like this.”

“Where else would I live?” the Mothman asks, not sharing the grim history behind this cozy little cabin. How the hermit who lived here didn’t need it anymore after the Mothman crossed his path and he ran screaming at the very sight, until his foot got caught on roots and he went tumbling down a rocky hill.

“I don’t know,” Dean replies, huffing with amusement. “A cave or a nest or…a fucking cocoon, whatever.”

“I’m not in any way related to a moth,” the Mothman replies. “That is simply the name humans gave to me.”

That makes Dean look at them for a long period, as if he’s studying the Mothman, though not with the sense of terror or morbid fascination every other human who has ever seen them in the light did. “You got a name I should be calling you by or something?”

It strikes the Mothman that this is an unusual question. This is not a question anyone would think to ask them. It is not a question they ever had reason to ask themself.

“I have only ever been the Mothman,” they explain.

“Oh,” Dean says. He’s quiet for a moment, then pushes on. “Didn’t your parents call you anything a little less, uh, dramatic?”

The Mothman shrugs. There were never parents. There was never a childhood. The Mothman does not know where they came from or why. They have simply existed, for however long they existed, with no apparent change over time and no justification. There was no beginning and, going by the blankness they have experienced when trying to glimpse their own death, there will be no mercy of an end, either.

“I have no mother or father,” the Mothman tells him. “Or anyone.”

Dean’s voice is solemn as he asks, “No siblings?”

“No one,” the Mothman repeats. “At least not that I know of.”

“What about a Mothlady?” Dean waggles his eyebrows. “Maybe she’s out there somewhere.”

“I am not gendered,” the Mothman tells him, and for the first time in their life, shares a laugh with another person. “I suppose that sounds odd, considering what I am called.”

“Not a moth, not a man, not a monster to blow off some steam on,” Dean grumbles playfully as he ticks his complaints off on his fingers. “The advertising on this hunt needs some serious work.”

“You aren’t like your brother,” the Mothman observes. “You wanted me to be guilty.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably before agreeing, “Would have been a cleaner solution, even you gotta admit. If it’s not you causing all this, we’ve got bupkis on how to help. I don’t like walking away knowing…” He shrugs. “I’m not gonna waste you for having shitty luck, man. But there’s gonna be deaths and we won’t have stopped them, and that’s not how our Dad raised us to leave things. I prefer my hunts without the gray area when possible.”

Nodding, the Mothman says, “Most hunters do. And yet you allow the possibility that it exists.”

“That’s all Sam.” Dean smiles fondly, even as he rolls his eyes. “He’s a bad influence.”

“Is it true what he said earlier?” the Mothman asks. “About his visions.”

Dean frowns but he nods. “Yeah, it’s true. He had ‘em for a while. But they weren’t quite like yours. Not random and not tied to how close a person was to him and, hell, sometimes they weren’t even head starts. He just had to watch whatever horrible thing was happening in real time.”

“At least he could take comfort in the fact that there was nothing he could do,” says the Mothman.

Shaking his head, Dean says, “You don’t know my little brother.”

It’s a simple statement, but it’s mixed with enough sadness that the Mothman knows it would be impolite to push for more information. They don’t exactly want to sit around and talk about all the times they couldn’t help, either.

“I’m starting to,” the Mothman says instead. “Have visions of you both. Get to know you. At least, who you’ll be in the future. Your brother truly believes anything can be saved, doesn’t he?”

Dean’s smile is aimed at the floor, so the Mothman can only see the edges of it. “He’s a good kid—good man. A pain in the ass and don’t think it doesn’t piss me off that you’re the only one I’ve seen loom over him since he went to college. But he’s about as good as a person can get.”

The Mothman stays quiet, because there’s really nothing to say. There is no response to whatever it is that these brothers share that a thing wrapped in musty wings and loneliness can have except ugly, mean jealousy.

“You never made up a name for yourself?” Dean asks, returning to the conversation from earlier. He slips into a poor imitation of the Mothman’s voice as he riffs, “Like, ‘oh, yeah, call me Frank. Frank Mothman. Of the Point Pleasant Mothmans.’”

“Never really had anyone to introduce myself to,” the Mothman points out when they have finished laughing. “Who would befriend a thing like me?”

“Sammy would,” Dean says without hesitation, and it’s clear the one must follow the other when he adds, “I would.”

“Then as a friend I would have to tell you to stay away. The longer you’re near me, the more likely you are to die.”

“I’m pretty hard to kill,” Dean jokes. His expression changes, and he says, “We’ll get you a laptop. Sam has this thing he does so we can talk to our friends when we’re scattered. Zoomy, I think it is? I don’t know, he sets it up. I bring my delightful personality. Life’s all about balance.”

The Mothman smiles, and for a moment, the lightness of the moment just hangs there between them, uninterrupted. It’s the greatest happiness the Mothman has ever experienced.

Of course the next thing Dean says ruins it. “So you hang out up here by yourself and see gruesome scenes like the one you described to us all the time, and that’s just…it?”

“Mostly, but not quite.” The Mothman looks down at their hands as they move to lean against the kitchen counter. “I don’t only see death. When accidents are happening, that’s what I see, and since I stay away from people, I really only see their futures if they’re unfortunate enough to cross my path. But on these rare occasions when I am around someone for longer, I see many moments of their future, flashes, more and more the longer I spend with them. If there is joy ahead of them, I see that, too.”

“Oh.” Dean licks his lips and the Mothman’s chest aches as they realize what is going to come next. Dean is just looking for the right way to ask. This is going to end the way it always does after all. “So you can see me and…?”

“Yes,” the Mothman confirms.

“Can you see…?” He wipes his fingers across his lips and cuts his glance away. “We’ve had pretty messed up lives, Sam and I. Until a few years back. Can you see all that?”

“I am not omniscient,” the Mothman explains. “I do not see pasts. I do not read minds. I see only what is in front of me and what is in front of others.”

“That’s good news for you, pal,” Dean says, laughing at a joke the Mothman does not understand. “We’ve got a track record with the all-knowing and it ain’t pretty.”

“You want to ask,” the Mothman guesses. “So ask.”

Dean looks pained as he lifts his eyes to theirs, and it’s clear he’s trying very hard not to. Until finally he says, “I need to know. You don’t understand. Life was so wrong for so long it’s…it’s like, even now that we got out and we’ve been free, I still can’t—can’t really believe in it. I keep waiting for something to go wrong, for Sammy to realize he can…”

“Many hunters have asked me how they die, Dean. None of them have ever liked the answer.”

“I need to know,” he says again. “How do I…? How does Sammy die? Is he with me when it happens?”

The Mothman sighs, resigned. They have never lied to anyone when asked directly, and these Winchesters have been kind. They do not want to lie. They do not want to play this scene out, either. Because the way it begins is with the truth, and when the hunter doesn’t like what they’re told, they turn violent. They attack. And their death changes in front of the Mothman’s eyes. Too many times, the Mothman has watched a moment ahead of themself, learning that whatever horrible fate was supposed to befall the hunter will be avoided, but only because they will be the thing that kills that person instead. So much blood on their hands that should have never spilled.

“Please, just leave it,” the Mothman begs. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I can take it,” Dean assures him. “I gotta know. I need to know. I just want to _know_. I could finally relax if I just knew.”

It would be easy to put their foot down, but they see the open desperation in Dean Winchester’s eyes, and to some degree, they understand. If they woke up blind tomorrow, they would never be able to trust it, either. They would always be afraid the sight would return. It feels equally if not more unkind as telling him the future to leave Dean twisting from the end of that rope.

“Sam dies in bed. An old man. The cancer is inoperable but he feels little pain. There is love there, he is not alone.”

That was the nice part, without the context, but even so, Dean’s smile is not something the Mothman was prepared for. It nearly splits his face in two, so wide he’s reminiscent of another local West Virginia legend. The Grinning Man, also known as Indrid Cold, that’s what Dean’s expression makes the Mothman think of. Unfortunately, unlike the Mothman, the Grinning Man is just a story, a fabrication the Mothman’s few defenders invented when they saw that all the Mothman ever tried to do was stop tragedies from happening. To make it all easier to explain to themselves, they introduced another boogeyman, one who was really to blame for all those senseless deaths. A very human impulse, always trying to uncover deeper reasons when sometimes, most of the time in the Mothman’s experience, things just happen and they are horrific and nothing comes from them. If there was some other truly evil creature out there to bring to justice, the Mothman would have ended things a long time ago.

“Sam an old man, huh?” Dean asks, still manic in his joy, and it breaks the Mothman’s heart, because this, right here, this is the first time anyone has ever taken comfort in what they had to say. “I bet his hair is so stupid. It is, right? No, don’t tell me. I want to be surpr–”

“You die young,” the Mothman interrupts, wanting to get this over with before Dean has another moment to make them feel worse about it. “You walk into a hunt and do not walk out. It’s bloody and horrible and you know a long time before your last breath that you won’t make it.”

They wait for Dean’s reaction, for the smile to fall and anger to replace it. They wait for the violence. For their vision to change to a death where the Mothman must break Dean’s neck to save themself. They are losing the fire to fight. Maybe this time, they will just let Dean win. This shouldn’t be his day. There’s a whole string of successful hunts that lie ahead of him before he dies. The brand new blister on his foot is long healed by the time Dean walks into that barn. 

But Dean’s smile doesn’t waver. It doesn’t collapse and it doesn’t grow. He hardly reacts at all. This is not news. There’s a nearly imperceptible nod of Dean’s head that says all the Mothman did was confirm what he already knew.

The Mothman is in unfamiliar territory now, and that’s a first for them. They try to guess at what happens next, but it’s only guesses. They prepare for a flurry of follow-up questions, expecting Dean to ask for details: When? How? What are they fighting? What can he do to change it?

Dean only has one question. One he asked before, but which the Mothman took for the least important. Dean repeats it like it was the most important one all along.

“Is he there?” Dean says. “Is Sam with me when it happens?”

It’s an easy question for a change. A stupid question, in fact. The Mothman isn’t sure what basis Dean could possibly have to doubt his brother, and once again, it bothers them that they cannot know the past at play here. But if Dean could see what the Mothman does, he would know how little he has to worry about. “Of course he is with you.”

“Sammy old in bed,” Dean echoes, and by now his expression is downright radiant. It’s not that he’s letting his brother’s future eclipse his own, because the joy is even clearer when he says, “And he stays. He really stays with me.”

The Mothman fights the urge to frown. The first and only time they have ever made someone happy, and if they go on, they’ll ruin it. But the story isn’t really complete without the details. Dean has made it clear what matters to him in his death, that he will take bloody and painful or old in bed, but that his brother being there matters more than the circumstances. The Mothman has a feeling that quiet and restful would be a greater curse to him if it happened just ten minutes too late for his brother to still be swimming in his vision when he goes.

So Dean gets what he wanted. That’s nice for Dean. But Sam. Sam gets forty years in hell. There is joy and love in his long life, yes, the Mothman did not lie about that, but there is no moment of pleasure that doesn’t appear to be punctuated by the thought that Dean will never know it. The Mothman sees all the tragic details of the seemingly happy ending he spelled out for Dean’s brother. All the times Sam reaches for one of those ridiculous weapons Dean favored, determined to end it, and the shattering sobs when he just hardly stops himself. The Mothman sees Sam talking to Dean in his kitchen late at night, the way he pauses for Dean’s response and laughs at whatever joke Dean would have made, and that Sam’s son watches from the hallway, his expression never appearing sure whether his father knows that he’s laughing at dead air or not. The Mothman watches relief wash over Sam’s wrinkled face when the oncologist gives him his diagnosis and hears that the last word Sam says just before his son joins him at his deathbed is ‘finally.’

The Mothman is about to tell Dean all of that, because Dean wanted to know. But then Dean looks at them, approximately where their eyes are behind their shades, and says “thank you” with every ounce of sincerity he has in him. He thanks the Mothman for their prophecy, and he doesn’t ask for more. This is a man who learned the hard way not to look too hard when he gets handed good news. No one’s life improves if the Mothman says more here. They could just one time watch someone walk away from them, life a little better for having known them.

And they know that that is what they will do, because they see Dean’s future changing just slightly in front of their eyes. How he enters every hunt on guard, like he’s wondering if this will be the one. The way it starts to fade over time, a little less anxious with every job that goes right, until a year passes, then two, and he lets go of the worry. The Mothman sees Dean spill his heart out of his lips as he’s fading and lose focus just for one moment, say one thing he didn’t mean to let slip: “I did not think this would be the day.” Sam doesn’t know what he means and never dwells on it, there are too many words Dean says that he spends the rest of his life clinging to, so those pass with little significance. But to the Mothman, watching across the expanse of years, those are the words that cut the deepest. 

“We can’t tell Sam,” Dean says, pulling the Mothman back from the future they were quickly getting lost in. “If he asks. I don’t think he will. Sam’s not the kind to ask. But if he does. I’m begging you. Don’t tell him. He’ll try to change it. He’ll try to change it for me and…and you said yourself, it can change, right? We can’t let him. Who knows how it would end up?”

The Mothman shakes their head, because there’s every chance Sam _could_ change it. Maybe they could both live to be old and gray and breathe their last together, but the Mothman cannot promise that. They do not have the power to play out every possibility, only the one that is on track at a given moment. If they encouraged Sam to try to save Dean, Sam might die instead, or whatever Dean fears might separate them…

The Mothman has doubts such a thing could exist, but it would be cruel to promise it couldn’t happen when that’s not something they can guarantee.

“Is it destiny?” Dean asks after they’ve both been quiet, lost in their thoughts for several long minutes. “We fought so hard not to be destined for anything. I don’t want a destiny. But I want this.”

“What I see, it’s not part of any higher plan,” the Mothman says. “I assure you, I am not one of God’s creatures.”

“Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing,” Dean mutters. “He was a dick.”

“Well, regardless, my visions are not divine. I just glimpse what is going to happen, unless something alters it. The world doesn’t break when my visions shift. That used to happen, when I could still see destiny. That all went away. I felt the moment the plan vanished, watched the future become free. It was like the universe heaved a great sigh of relief.”

“Sam and I had a different ending back then,” Dean tells them. “Well, a lot of different endings. I never thought we’d truly get free of it. And now we are and one day…” He smiles to himself. “Son of a bitch, we really got out.”

Before the Mothman can decide what to say to that, the door opens and in walks Sam Winchester, age halved since the last time the Mothman saw him, almost half a century from now, when he closed his eyes for good. He’s dripping wet but all in one piece, which is confirmed within moments by Dean, who rushes to his feet and begins checking him over, even though he should know there’s nothing to worry about for Sam today or any day they both live. 

Sam shoves him off, annoyed but accustomed to the mother-henning, and looks to the Mothman instead. “The hook was in by the time I got there. It happened just like you told us.”

They shake their head ‘no,’ and Sam reaches out, puts a comforting hand as close to their shoulder as the hunter can reach. “It’s okay, it’s like you said. The wound wasn’t that bad. I was able to treat it, and to get them both back to shore. They’re gonna stop at urgent care on the way home, but they should be fine. No one died today. We even released the damn fish.”

The Mothman’s lip trembles; they wonder if the brothers can see that. Every other human who has ever looked upon them has been unable to perceive their face, but maybe these two are different. The Mothman has never had to worry they might be showing too much emotion before.

Two times in one day, their curse has been a blessing instead. These hunters will never know what gifts they have given to a creature most would sooner see dead than smiling.

“I can see it,” they say, comforted that the strange blankness of their voice at least has not changed. Too much upheaval today, and the Mothman never had to learn how to handle change. “The bicyclist’s dogs will live to have puppies.”

“Aww, that’s nice,” Dean says. “We’ve got a dog. His name is Miracle. He’s great. Lemme see if I have some pictures…”

Dean immediately takes out his phone and begins searching through it, and the Mothman turns their attention to Sam. They expect to see him smiling, amused by his brother maybe, but instead he’s watching the Mothman with a slightly sick look on his face, like he’s trying to decide whether to say something or not.

“Tell me,” the Mothman says. “Whatever it is.”

Sam shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. We should probably be—”

“Sam, tell me,” they plead.

Across the room, Dean has lowered his phone, is looking to his brother with a questioning expression.

“On my way here,” Sam starts, and the Mothman knows as soon as he begins talking where this is going. “There was an accident. As soon as I got within a mile of the cabin, this tree—”

“Yes,” the Mothman says, not needing to have seen it to know what would have happened. “You avoided it?”

“Nothing gets past Sam,” Dean says cheerfully, because he’s still up in the clouds, focusing on all the good news he’s gotten, and he hasn’t realized yet what Sam is trying so hard to put gently. “Except me, obviously.”

“Forget it,” Sam says. They know from a flash of the brothers on the car ride home that Sam will tell Dean later, trying to spare the Mothman an ugly truth, and the brothers will agonize over how to deal with this. It’s a future the Mothman would like to avoid. “I’m fine. I dodged it. No harm done.”

“But you’ve seen what I have long suspected,” the Mothman says. “I didn’t want to believe it, but if you noticed it, that’s confirmation. The accidents aren’t random, are they? I don’t cause them. But proximity to me does.”

“It’s just a theory, alright?” Sam smiles, reassuring, but his stance is painfully awkward. “We can figure this out. Me and Dean, we’ve solved some pretty messed up mysteries in our day. We can crack this one too, we just need some time.”

“And what if there’s another school bus in that time?” the Mothman asks. “What if a plane takes off nearby? Who knows how many lives I’ve cost, how many more will be lost if we don’t…?”

“No, no way, nuh uh,” Dean says. “I don’t like where this is going one bit. We’re gonna put our heads together and find—”

“It’s okay,” the Mothman says. “It’s okay. I can see it now. How I die. I can finally see it.”

The vision is still not clear, but it’s starting to form. There’s a blade and there’s a brother, though which one it is still appears as a blur. There’s a feeling of contentment that has never accompanied a vision before, not even the times they saw other people’s bliss instead of just their heartbreaks.

They take a step toward the hunters, tapping lightly on Sam’s jacket where they saw him hide his copper knife at the start of this, before they’d even met.

“I’ve been shot many times in many places. Your guns are no good here. But I think the knife will be enough.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Sam assures him, in that same gentle tone he’d used when the brothers first arrived. Before he had any reason to be kind. The first time anyone spoke to the Mothman like that.

“It does and it’s okay. I’ve been here a long time.” The Mothman considers both brothers before turning to Sam. “I would like it to be you, if that’s okay.”

Dean steps forward, trying to shield his brother, and the Mothman feels some guilt, because it’s clear it’s been this way before, that Dean doesn’t like to let his little brother shoulder this burden. But the Mothman understands where those other creatures were coming from when they asked Sam to do it, if he approached them the same way he approached the Mothman. To have the concern Sam showed them be the last thing they experience is a mercy most monsters will never be given.

“I can do it,” Dean says, holding his hand out to Sam, the order implicit in the gesture. “It doesn’t have to be you, Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t hand over the blade, instead looks to the Mothman to see if they will change their mind. They turn their face to Dean. This is an argument they can win. Dean understands better than anyone what it is the Mothman is asking for. Their reasons may be different, but what they both want, ultimately, is to leave this place with Sam’s compassion the last thing they know.

“Please,” they say. “Allow me the same solace you would have, if you could choose.”

It’s the best they can do to appeal to Dean without breaking their promise, without saying to him in front of Sam that this is the death they’ve both chosen. Dean is sharp enough to grasp that on his own. Hesitant only a moment longer, he finally lets his hand drop and takes a step back.

“We’re going to give you a hunter’s funeral,” Sam promises, his voice wavering. “No one will find your body. There won’t be experiments or gawking. And you won’t come back.”

“That’s very appreciated,” the Mothman says.

“I’ve been where you’re going,” Dean adds. It seems like an odd claim for a human, but then, this one spoke of God earlier as if that was a fly he once had to swat. That they are extraordinary is clear, and the Mothman will choose to believe Dean’s claim. “It’s pure there. Simple. Nothing messy like those visions, not in Purgatory. Everyone there is—you won’t be a freak. You’ll be just like everybody else.”

The Mothman cannot cry, but if they could, this would be the moment they begin to. They nod instead, lifting Sam’s arm until the knife is resting just over their chest. “Can I ask for one favor?”

“Anything,” Sam promises.

“Give me a name before you burn me. I don’t care what it is. Just. Give me a real name.”

Sam nods, a tear slipping down his cheek, but he smiles, trying to lighten the moment. “I’ll come up with something. Dean can’t name things.”

The Mothman laughs, remembering Dean an hour ago, joking about how he should go by Frank Mothman, which is the exact moment Sam chooses to plunge the blade in. The pain is immediate, washes through the Mothman’s body, but doesn’t kill them right away. It’s blinding. Blinding pain in the most literal sense. As they start to die, they realize why they never were able to see this, why even the vision that started to form today was more of a conjecture than a certainty. For the moments of their life that they spend dying, they lose the power to see, and there is nothing flashing in front of the Mothman’s eyes. Only Sam Winchester, pushing the knife in, shedding fat, messy tears for them, and faraway the sound of his brother comforting him with words the Mothman is already too far gone to perceive.

The Mothman finds the strength to speak two last words. “Thank you.”


End file.
